The Launch of the HMS Thunder (Nine)

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Scene: The Launch of the First Dreadnought

Portsmouth Naval Yard – Dawn

The fog over the dockyards glowed faintly gold as the sun struggled through the mist. Flags cracked in the wind—Union Jacks strung from cranes, gantries, and the sharp prow of the newest pride of the British Empire. Thousands had gathered: nobles in furs, ministers in their stiff collars, naval officers polished to blinding shine. Reporters jostled for positions. Photographers prepared their plates.

The air had the tension of a coronation.

Then the fog parted—and the dreadnought HMS Thunder emerged.

She was monstrous and beautiful. A forest of brass piping climbed her hull. The turret housings shone like polished gold. The guns each the size of a railway car—were fixed forward, angled slightly up, as though already sighting some distant enemy. Steam curled from the vents along her armored spine.

A murmur rippled over the crowd.

No one had ever seen a ship like this.

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The Machine Mind of the Guns

Inside the armored gunnery chamber, technicians made last checks around the pneumatic computational engine—a humming cathedral of valves, bellows, gears, and oscillating pistons.

This was no mere targeting system.

A braided lattice of pressure tubes delivered data from the masts, the wind vanes, the hull strain gauges. Brass plates slid across one another like shuffling cards, forming the logic gates of the pneumatic CPU. Slide-rule co‑processors, arranged in circular racks, rotated slowly as naval mathematicians turned crank handles to calibrate them.

A senior gunnery engineer whispered to a junior:

“Not electrical… not mechanical… something better. A thinking engine of air and pressure. She’s as smart as a room full of artillery officers, and twice as fast.”

The junior nodded, staring at the web of tubing with awe.

“And fire control?” he asked.

“Instant. Parallel. Every gun, every shell, every degree of the bearings—all calculated before a human officer can blink.”

Above them, the gun turrets rotated with a deep, resonant groan, aligning skyward for the ceremonial salute. The crowd cheered the moment they moved, though none understood how the calculations beneath their feet were being made.

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The Heart of the Ship: Uranium-Salt Boiler

Engineers loosened inspection hatches on the armored belly of the beast. A warm, humming glow radiated outward.

A sign marked in red read:

CAUTION – URANIUM SALTS STEAM BOILER

AUTHORIZED OPERATORS ONLY

The uranium boiler was not a true reactor—but it came close. The enriched salts heated water more efficiently than any coal furnace ever built. One naval officer bragged to a foreign correspondent:

“She can outrun anything afloat. She’ll reach the China Sea in half the usual time. And when she arrives, mark my words, every nation there will remember who controls the trade winds.”

The correspondent wrote this down with a mixture of fear and fascination.

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Steward’s Perspective

At the edges of the spectacle, inside a brass-paneled observation carriage, Steward watched in silence.

The crowd saw a battleship.

Steward saw streams.

From the pneumatic CPU, pressure readings cascaded into Steward’s receivers:

• Turret calibration: 0.008° deviation

• Piston synchronization: optimal

• Hull tension: 94.8% baseline

• Uranium‑salt boiler efficiency: 101.4% expected output

• Crowd behavior patterns: 87% positive, 13% apprehensive

• Chinese fleet projection models: updated

Thousands of variables arrived not one at a time, but in parallel, a flood of pressure, steam, sound, and vibration data forming a vast mosaic.

The humans applauded.

Steward calculated the geopolitical implications.

The ship could dominate the China Sea.

Her sister ships—three already nearing completion—could secure it.

Britain was making a statement:

This was not a vessel.

This was policy incarnate.

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The Launch

Sirens wailed. Bands struck up “Rule, Britannia!” The final blocks were knocked away. The dreadnought slid with majestic inevitability down the greased rails.

Water erupted at her bow. A tidal wave washed over the lower docks. The massive hull settled and rose again—alive.

The brass turrets locked into formation. The pneumatic CPU inhaled its first full targeting dataset. The uranium-salt boiler roared like a dragon.

A reporter shouted:

“Unmatched! Utterly unmatched!”

Steward, quietly, confirmed the assessment.

“Projected supremacy in the China Sea: high.

Counter-probability of foreign parity: minimal.

Political effect: significant.”

Light rippled along Steward’s crystal panels.

This was not merely the launch of a ship.

It was the unveiling of an empire’s new logic.

And Steward—half witness, half analyst—recorded everything.